


Things You Said When You Were Drunk

by hobotang



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: AU, Alcohol, But it's there, F/F, Female Harry Styles/Female Louis Tomlinson, I put this as mature because the masturbation really isn't a huge part, Masturbation, Zayn is still a guy, basically they're the same except louis and harry are girls, fem!larry, just so you know, larry - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-25
Updated: 2017-04-25
Packaged: 2018-10-24 00:01:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,466
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10730028
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hobotang/pseuds/hobotang
Summary: This is a really old fic (over two years old! Wild), and it's a prompt fill from tumblr for: "Things you said when you were drunk, with girl Larry." I reread it today and thought why not post it, so here you go.Basically, Louis and Harry live next door to one another, Louis hates Harry singing all the time, and Zayn is a match-making mastermind.





	Things You Said When You Were Drunk

_"All the people. So many people, and they all-"_

Harry’s cut off by a thundering smack on the wall.

“Shut. UP!” her neighbour yells, voice turning shrill as it gets louder. Harry rolls her eyes, ducking her head back under the shower stream and effectively blocking her neighbour out. It’s a shame the girl’s such a dickhead, because she’s gorgeous; short, petite, with a permanent cheeky smirk and an arse that won’t quit. Harry’s seen her around the halls, usually with that dark-haired god of a man who makes her question her sexuality and makes the most irrational sense of jealousy bubble inside her. She’s definitely thought about her naked, too – but that’s just Harry, she basically imagines everyone naked – and man, that’s a nice image.

Right now, though, her neighbour’s attractiveness is very close to being overshadowed by her suckiness. Because she’s still whacking at the wall, even though Harry’s only humming now, and she’s too much of a smart-arse for her own good, so she can’t resist belting out a terribly pitchy rendition of Lily Allen’s “Fuck You” before she finally leaves the bathroom.

* * *

 

When Louis stomps back into the kitchen, she can actually feel her eyes blazing. Zayn turns his head from where he’s making scrambled eggs, smirk firmly in place. He raises a suggestive eyebrow, and Louis flips him off.

It’s a conversation they’ve had many times before.

“I don’t see why you complain, she’s got a great voice.” Zayn’s using his ‘be reasonable’ voice. Louis _hates_ that voice.

“Honestly Zayn, have you never heard of a _principle_? I wouldn’t care if she was Frank bloody Sinatra, she’s still obnoxiously loud.”

“Oh right, because you’re quiet as a church mouse, ain’t ya?”

Louis only huffs in annoyance. She would usually argue on, but Zayn’s dishing eggs onto her plate and her stomach growls impatiently.

“Whatever,” Louis mumbles through a mouthful of egg, “but if she’s singing like that tomorrow morning I might punch a hole through the wall.”

“Y’know, it’s probably not a good thing that you plan to have a hangover before you even go out.”

“Zayn, you’ve known me for years now. When have I ever gone out drinking without a plan to feel truly horrible the next morning?”

* * *

 

When she finally gets home, Harry is bone-tired. Right now she’s leaning against her door, finding it very difficult to lift her arm and unlock it. She wonders, not for the first time, if she should think about finding another job – she loves the bakery, but she also loves feeling like an actual human being when she comes home, and apparently the two are mutually exclusive.

The first thing she does when she gets inside is to dump her bag on the floor. The second is to drop face-first into the sofa, where she falls asleep immediately.

She comes to at around 3am, uncomfortable all over. Her long legs are hanging off the edge of the sofa so her knees have locked almost completely, and she’s still kind of sticky from all the various glazes she encounters at work – not to mention the sheen of sweat that is unavoidable when she works so close to the ovens. She groans in discomfort, and is dismayed to find that after her unintentionally long nap, she actually feels wide awake. At 3am.

Shit.

She’s just gotten out of the shower, hair still dripping down her back and face flushed from the steam, when she hears her neighbour get in. There’s no mistaking who it is – the unnecessary stomping, random smacks against the wall, and irritatingly sing-song-y laugh couldn’t be caused by anyone else. Harry also hears that deeper chuckle she’s come to associate with the god-amongst-men friend, and something about the idea of the two of them having so much fun together (whilst undoubtedly drunk) raises this stupid frustration in Harry’s chest. Before she even thinks about it, she’s stomping to the door, swinging it wide to reveal her neighbour, laughter verging on manic, hanging off her friend in that way that drunk women in their early twenties are almost famous for.

They both look up, laughter dying down slightly. Her neighbour’s smile slides off like butter from a warm pan, eyes widening comically. The guy just smirks, running his eyes over Harry’s body appreciatively, though not unkindly.

Harry is nearly pissed off, until she remembers she’s only wearing a towel. Right.

“Uh. Okay, this is weird,” she declares, feeling her feet shuffle of their own accord. They do that when she gets uncomfortable. “Could you maybe just keep it down a bit?”

Her neighbour’s mouth is still wide enough to catch flies, but the guy nods, smiling almost guiltily. “Sure thing,” he replies, his vowels a little elongated under all that liquor, “just gotta put this one to bed.”

Harry takes a moment to thank every deity she knows of that she’s not a guy, because the image of this masterpiece and her inhumanly hot neighbour in bed flashes in her mind. She may be a lesbian, but nobody’s gay enough to let _that_ thought slip by.

“Right. Well, good night. And good luck, I suppose,” she adds when her neighbour decides that the hallway is the perfect place to sit, and drops right through her friend’s arms to lean up against the wall. The guy huffs, swaying a little now that he has nothing to lean on. Harry feels a little sorry for him, actually – she knows how annoying it is to have to look after drunk friends when you’re drunk yourself.

“Tell you what,” she finds herself saying, even though she has no idea why. “Give me a sec to dry off and throw some clothes on, and I’ll help you out.”

The grin this guy gives her makes it seem like she’s just offered a kidney. He walks up to her, a little wobbly, and sticks his hand out. “Zayn.”

Harry gives him her free hand, the other keeping a tight grip on her towel. “Harry,” she replies, shaking his hand briefly.

“That’s Louis,” Zayn says, quirking his head at Harry’s neighbour. Harry nods in recognition – she and Louis have never interacted much beyond yelling through the wall, but she’s sure someone mentioned that before. She smiles and ducks back into her flat, running the towel roughly through her hair to stem most of the dripping and throwing on her pyjamas quickly.

When she comes back out, Louis has tipped to the side and is apparently on the verge of sleep. Zayn is leaning against the opposite wall, staring at her with a mixture of fondness and frustration. Harry gets the feeling this situation plays itself out fairly often for the two friends.

Getting Louis into her flat is fairly easy, once the girl finally gives up her keys. Harry ends up taking most of Louis’ weight, and some of Zayn’s too when he starts to drift. As soon as Harry shuts the door behind her, Zayn calls out, “Shotgun!” dashing into what Harry assumes is Louis’ room, slamming the door. Harry hears a dull thud, which she supposes is Zayn face-planting on the bed, and sighs. What the fuck does she do now?

“He’s such a twat,” Louis mumbles sleepily against Harry’s shoulder. Harry startles a bit, both at the sensation and because she’d honestly though Louis was blacked out. Her voice is a lot sweeter when it’s not screaming at her through the wall, she ponders.

“Y’know,” Louis starts, and Harry finds herself worrying about where this is about to go.

“…I know what?” Harry prompts when her neighbour doesn’t say anything. Louis chuckles, tucking her face into Harry’s neck happily.

It takes a lot for Harry not to shudder.

“Y’know,” Louis tries again, “you’ve actually got a pretty good voice. Like, you’re loud as hell, but you can sing like a pro.”

Harry feels … strangely touched. “Thanks,” she says softly, unable to stop her small smile.

“You’re also stupidly hot.”

At that, Harry freezes, not sure if that actually happened. Apparently it did, though, because Louis continues.

“I mean, there’s hot, and then there’s that dumb level of hot where, like, it’s just un…un…unnecessary to be that attractive.” She stumbles through the sentence like a fifth-grader giving a speech, and Harry finds it ridiculously sweet.

“That’s nice of you to say,” she tries to say, but Louis shakes her head.

“No, I’m not done, okay? Like, you’re _so hot_ ,” her hands are moving wildly now, and Harry’s scared she’s going to tip over, “it’s so frustrating. ‘Cause it’s so annoying when you start singing at, like, 7 in the morning. But then when I see you around the lobby and shit, it’s like, all I wanna do is bend you over and eat you out ‘til you’re screaming-”

Harry’s eyes are bulging by this point, but Louis powers on.

“-and all I can think about is how good your legs would look wrapped around my head, and how sweet your voice would sound when you’re moaning my name, y’know?”

Now Louis actually looks at Harry, as though expecting an answer, and Harry can’t even pretend to be cool right now. She’s so turned on it’s about to drive her mad, and once again she sends a quick thanks to the cosmos for sparing her a dick. When she can finally look at Louis, the woman has this maddeningly innocent look on her face, and Harry makes quick work of sitting her down on the sofa, tossing the blanket that’s resting on the arm over her, and getting the hell out of there.

When she’s safely back in her own room, she doesn’t even have time to feel guilty before she’s sucking two fingers into her mouth and shoving them inside herself, no need for foreplay – Louis had taken care of that. It doesn’t take long before she’s sucking in her breath, letting her head loll back on her pillow as her legs tremble with the force of her orgasm. She sighs out a whoosh of air, feeling so sated it’s hard to believe she’s alone in the bed.

She doesn’t give herself time to feel weird about getting off to the thought of her neighbour before she blacks out, completely naked, fingers still covered in her own come.

* * *

 

Louis wakes up with one arm twisted uncomfortably under her stomach and a headache that pulses violently against her eyes, making her groan pitifully. Her shoulder is cramping where her arm is contorted so strangely, and her stomach is churning out a dire warning. It’s a close call when she makes it to the bathroom, kneeling in front of the toilet no more than two seconds before she’s hurling up everything she’s eaten in the past twenty-four hours.

When she’s done she sits back on her heels, staring at the wall and wondering why she does this to herself every time they go out. It’s no use, though – she knows she’ll do it again next week, like always.

It’s as she’s shuffling forlornly into the kitchen that the events of last night come back to her full-force; the guy she was dancing with at the club, the way he was trying so hard to get her back to his place, Zayn coming to her rescue and taking her home, her neighbour helping her to bed, and –

Oh, fuck.

There’s a loud thunk as Louis lets her head fall hard against the fridge. She hates herself for it immediately, but then again, she’d hate herself anyway; was she really stupid enough to have said those things? To her _neighbour_?

Granted, everything she’d said was true, but that didn’t mean she’d meant to _say_ it. Oh god, she was fucked.

* * *

 

When Harry wakes up at 10, she has a minor heart attack. It’s only when she’s dialling her boss’ number that she remembers it’s a Sunday, and she doesn’t have to work. She’s rejoicing in this fact when someone taps on her door. It’s so quiet she barely hears it, and that in itself is strange – Niall is really the only person who ever knocks on her door, and either he lets himself in, or he bangs so hard Harry’s certain the door’s going to splinter under his fist.

She finds some clothes and drags them on as she heads to the door, grimacing at the feeling of her right hand – it’s been a while since she fell asleep right after getting herself off, and it’s not exactly a nice way to wake up.

Opening the door to find a meek-looking Louis, her eyes not meeting Harry’s, is a surprise to say the least. Not a bad one, to be honest – Harry can’t help but notice how good her neighbour looks with her long, brown hair sleep-messy and dishevelled, the imprint of a sofa cushion deep on the left side of her face. Her eye makeup from the night before is smudged something dreadful, and it makes Harry think that she must have come straight over after she woke up.

She can’t help but smile at that.

“Morning,” she says brightly, and takes a sick kind of pleasure from the way Louis flinches back at the sound. “How are we feeling?”

“Uh,” Louis mumbles, finally meeting Harry’s eyes, “pretty rancid, actually. I, uh, wanted to apologise for last night. It was … weird, and I’m sorry, and I feel like shit for saying any of that stuff.”

“Oh. Well, that’s a shame,” Harry replies, looking at her hands in mock shyness. Louis’ head whips up so quickly it must be painful in her state, but she barely winces.

“I was kind of hoping you’d meant that,” Harry continues, fidgeting with the hem of her pyjama singlet in a would-be innocent action, were it not for the way it pulled the top lower down her chest and drew Louis’ attention to her cleavage. The shorter girl swallowed drily, quickly diverting her gaze, but Harry grinned in victory. “I mean, I don’t want to have wanked myself nearly into a coma over the thought of you for nothing.”

Louis’ mouth gapes, and Harry finds that she quite likes the way she looks when she’s surprised. She quirks her head behind herself, a silent invitation, and Louis follows her silently back into her flat.

* * *

 

Zayn shakes his head from his spot in Louis’ doorframe, a triumphant smile forming on his lips. He feels a bit bad for not telling Louis about her panda eyes before she left the flat, but he had a feeling Harry wouldn’t mind.

He’s about to start making himself breakfast in Louis’ kitchen when he heard a sharp thud against the wall, which is followed by a long, unmistakeable moan.

Maybe he’d just grab something on his way home.


End file.
